


I Looked at the Sun

by pizzatimes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M, Marauders' Era, Punk, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-02-14 23:24:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2206974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pizzatimes/pseuds/pizzatimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between his sixth and seventh year, an impulsive, impetuous Sirius Black experiments with Muggle fads. While James is busy pretending he's grown up, Remus is dragged along for the ride; in the process, he begins to realize several things he struggles to make sense of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Nearness of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here is a visual summary of the chapter if you're curious  
> goo.gl/01B7Gd
> 
> "Good rarely follows when Sirius is this chuffed over something. He plops down at the foot of the guest bed with characteristic gusto, causing my tea to slop down my front and smiling wider in response to my indignant sputter. He takes off his damp jacket and starts digging around its pockets. I want to scold him for getting rainwater and tea on my bed, but I know he won’t listen. Not in this mood. As usual, I tend not to mind, though I wish I would. "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for giving this bizarre, self-indulgent stream-of-consciousness narrative a try.

* * *

 

 

Days pass calmly, without fuss. They are not punctuated with boyish adventure, nor does anyone sweep through and carry me forward with their momentum. I am content. 

That is, things are finally the way I suppose I want them: quiet, bookish, every interaction taking place with kind and considerate forethought. I've obviously inherited my demeanor, because living with my parents again feels like being immersed in predictability.

Life is peaceful in a way it can never be at Hogwarts.

Am I content?

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Dear Sirius,

Things here seem to be going at the unique pace only summer possesses. 

That is to say, not much to do. What are you up to?

I’ve been contemplating my name. I’ve decided I want to change it. Perhaps there is a higher power after all, albeit one with an awful sense of humor. You remember the ancient Rome section of History of Magic last year? You were asleep for most of it, but were apparently awake when we learned about Romulus & Remus, seeing as you threw a ball of parchment at my head when you heard my name, & then another when the story got to the part about a she-wolf & suckling... then there was that nasty (& frankly scarring) drawing you and James collaborated on… 

Yes, so there’s that, & then—Lupin. I always had a queer feeling about my last name, like it was some joke I didn’t get yet, & you see I was reading today & finally got it. The word “lupine” means “something that is like or relates to wolves.” Of course, you know all sorts of words (how, I haven’t a clue—you’ve never even cracked any of the books I’ve lent you) & probably have been laughing behind my back about this, haven’t you? Be honest.

It gets worse, if you can believe it. I was going through a scrapbook with my mum. Don’t give the letter that look, yes that one with the eyebrows! Some of us have perfectly kind mothers whom we humor by looking at photos. Anyways, I’d never known her maiden name. Apparently it’s Howell. Yes. Yes, howl. Wolf-child Wolfy, mother Hope Wolfy, née Howl. Be honest with me—when you & James began suspecting my problem, did you dismiss the idea at first because it would be _too bloody obvious_?

Well... besides that disconcerting realization, summer has been wonderful here. It's good to find a bit of peace, an impossible task with you around. It’s very calm without certain boots clunking around & smells drifting about & such ~~, although~~  

Again, nothing much interesting is happening here. I've caught up on sleep & spent a night in the cellar. The next day I found myself wishing you, Prongs, and Wormtail were here.

Predictably, I have read loads of books already. I've found some great records at a rummage sale, though you'd call them pretentious prat music. Mum won’t stop baking, like if she fattens me up enough I won’t be able to fit on the train back to Hogwarts. I think she’s onto something, as I already use a looser hole on my belt & it’s only been a week.

 ~~I’m including a few cookies she had me help make (have you ever baked? it’s like potionmaking, I rather enjoy it~~  I’m sure you’ve already eaten them by now, so I’m not sure why I took the time to write that.

You're up to date on the life of a Moony in its wild habitat. Lots of tea and **quiet.**

How’s living at James’ house? I’m sure you’ve shattered several valuable vases & his parents’ sanity by now. Please say hello to his parents for me, & no hello for James himself as he still hasn’t sent me the books I left there last year & he promised he’d do it as soon as he got home. I miss them. My poor, lonely, neglected orphans...

  
\- M

PS: now taking applications for a new nickname as well; why on earth did we think that was even vaguely clever? Oh to be young again...”

 

 

“AHAHAHAHA! hah! I was wondering how long it’d take you to notice! James n I have just debated what to name you. I even pulled out his mum’s old baby-naming books. we’ve settled on ‘Lyall Loup’ let us know how it fits!

You take a lot of page-space to write pretty simple things did you know? Why does your handwriting look like my great-grandmothers's even when it's not for a grade?

And I want you to solemnly swear NEVER to use accented letters in any words from now on! it reminds me of the French tutor I had growing up who smelled like foot fungus, a memory that has no place in my Summer Brain, which is full to the brim of MUGGLE THINGS!! I am learning SO much! though nothing you'd approve of

I’ve been passing time with some people that live near James and he doesn’t like them much because they’re very loud   a little scary and wear jewelry in their faces but. I like them very much. I thought all muggles had awful taste in music because all I’ve heard is what you listen to no offense intended of course

but these ones have shown me some AMAZING stuff

Also you have DEEPLY hurt me!     I am anguished! you think I haven’t read the books you’ve given me! I've read them all, even that awful one by that muggle who uses words that aren’t even WORDS, Shaky-Pear or whatever.

I like the one about the underwater ship, even with all the dull chapters about fish and corals. And the one about the desert island with the big bird and the treehouses was interesting. Did muggles really do all of that stuff before they had electricity? And why do they call them desert islands instead of deserted islands?

Look at what you’ve done, now I’m penning letters as wordy as yours, you should be ashamed of your bad influence!! 

I miss having someone around to look put-upon, James is too good of a sport, 

but yes things are going well here. James and I have been lifting boulders and running laps nonstop to maintain our manly chiseled physiques! that is to say we’ve been sleeping quite a lot and we found a box of muggle dirty magazines in a dumpster! So as you can see summer has been a smashing success so far

oh by the way James wrote you a letter last week and wanted me to send it with those books you mentioned, since he saw me writing to you BUT as mentioned my Summer Brain has no room for obligations though now that I see how lost and aimless and tragic your summer is without these particular books I’ll send them

 

Sincerely,

Sirius Black, He of Spiked Clothing

 

PS yes your cookies lasted mere moments, doomed from the start after all BUT though they were gone too fast to tell   I assume they were delicious. Not surprised you've spent the entire summer in a lacy apron, considering baking combines books and chocolate. Send food ASAP the Potters are cruelly starving me! withering as I write!”

 

 

“Dear Moony,

How’s your summer going? I’m sure you’ve gone through a library's worth of books, written several novels, and discovered a cure for dragonpox or whatever it is you do when Sirius and I aren’t around to distract you.

I've mostly just been sleeping and practicing Quidditch. Summers seem to get duller the older you get. Still haven't heard from Lily, even though I sent the letter you proof-read for me. Didn't even put back in the part about her speckly flawless thighs.

My mum wanted me to ask how you’ve been. I think she fancies you. She keeps asking if you’ll visit.

Sirius is already starting to treat this place like our dorm, that is to say stomping mud inside even when it's dry out, eating everything that isn't glued down, and vomiting in inconvenient spots, so. Mum would probably like you to come babysit him again. I'm no good at it.

He’s started spending time with a group of muggles, definitely older than us, who I don’t like very much—Sirius thinks it’s because they’re, well, I don’t know what the word is for it, you know, wear those big boots Sirius has and leather jackets even though it’s SO hot here. But that’s not why I don’t like them. I feel like they’re sort of taking advantage of Sirius. The fact that he doesn’t know anything about Muggles makes him sound a little clueless when he’s with them, and he’s of course 17 and eager to impress so he does whatever they want him to. He’s been shoplifting things, so now he has a little pile of jewelry he doesn’t have holes for (yet!), a few sunglasses and things.

Even came home plastered once when my parents had guests. Knocked over the umbrella stand, sick in it when he tried to pick it up. At least when we’re all drinking together you keep him from getting THAT smashed. PLEASE try to talk some sense into him, only don’t tell him I told you about the shoplifting. Or the puking.

Wow, I sound like you, don’t I? Maybe this is what growing up feels like. Come to think of it my chest has been looking hairier lately. 

If you visited both me and my mum would be grateful! And of course things aren’t the same without our Moony, what with his cleverness and quiet disapproval. We've got some ideas we'd like you to research for us too. If you came I’d give you the spare bed and make Sirius sleep in the creaky old cot, and I bet he wouldn’t even shove you out in the middle of the night to steal it, since he’s told me a few times he wishes you were here.

Anyways, things’ve been alright overall. Dull. Nothing seems as fun anymore. Wish Lily would write. 

I fully expect a lecture about the books you lent me, so... sorry about the doodle or two in the margins. And the folded corners. And I may have bent the spine open on too far on one because it seems loose now. It's OK to cry. Let it out. Only the mangled book’s there to judge you.

   
Pleading for assistance, Prongs”

 

 

“Dear Prongs,

If Sirius didn’t tell you, he forgot to send the package & letter until yesterday, so you ought to give him a whack upside the head as I’m not there to do it. We've got to work together to keep him well-trained. I've given my books a postmortem examination... you’re right, tears were shed, but only ten or twelve! Several landed on the pages, which of course warped the paper, leading to even more suffering on my part. I plan on revising my suicide note when I'm done with this letter.

 _< 3 James Evans-Potter <3 _? I like it. I won't shatter your fragile heart by asking for an update on the Evans situation, but you have my condolences. Though honestly, Prongs, I really think you need to give her space.

Has Peter written to you either? I sent him a letter last week & he didn’t reply. Likely having loads of fun clubbing whales or burrowing in the sand or whatever it is people do at beaches. I fail to understand how baking yourself until you're lobster red is in any way an appealing activity.

Anyways, you’ve got me worried about Sirius now, as I'm sure was your intention. I’ll write him a very stern letter, except not really, as I’m not allowed to put to parchment what I’d be scolding him for... is he drinking a lot? More than usual a lot? What kinds of places is he stealing from, anywhere with security? For Merlin's sake, is he doing drugs? I'd bet he is. I'd bet he’d do anything his new friends put in front of him, the way he writes about them. Naive.

Well, I talked to my mum & dad about visiting. I can come as long as you & Pads stay here for a while afterwards to 'make up for the imposition,' although I did tell mum I’ll be there in babysitting capacity, so really your family will be the one owing me.

Can I come next Monday? If not what’s good for your family? I promise I’ll keep a close eye on Padfoot, & mother hen him to the best of my ability. ~~I know that’s all~~ It’s what I’m best at, after all.

  
\- Clucking worriedly, Mother Hen Moony  
(Honestly, though. Shoplifting!)”

 

 

“Sirius! How dare you!

I went to the muggle library after your last letter, in part to research the name you & Prongs gave me & I am VERY angry & it’s entirely your fault! Do you know what my father’s name is?! **LYALL** which means WOLF  & this is YOUR FAULT. I was sort of joking last time when I said this whole name business convinced me there’s a god somewhere, except now I’m not, because what other explanation is there besides some sort of bloody awful cosmic joke?

That is to say, even you could come up with something funnier than this! And _subtler_ , which is saying something!

Do you see how many exclamation points & capital letters I’m using?! That’s your fault as well because your letter ROTTED MY BRAIN, turned it to slosh, & I will never be the same. I could hardly even read some sections because you write like you have paws. Besides the penmanship, you need to acquaint yourself with commas, punctuation, & capitalization. I'm not sure I want to ask what that stain in the corner was.

On to other matters. You’re trotting about in a leather jacket smelling like sweaty dog, aren’t you? ~~Except dogs don’t sweat I don’t think~~ I suppose I’m glad you’ve made new friends, only I hope you’re being smart about it, not jumping head-first into bad ideas the way you tend to. But I do mean it, I’m glad you’re having fun  & trying new things & etc (don’t try TOO many new things though; I haven’t forgotten the time with that potion the Ravenclaw sold you, & I’m sure no one else in the common room that ill-fated night will either).

 ~~Are you Have you~~ You  & Alice aren’t dating anymore, right? Are you on shagging terms with any of your new friends?

I’m actually really delighted that you read the things I’ve given you—does that mean I should start supplementing my Christmas gifts with books again? I promise I’ll shower you with the very least-dull of my favorites, if you've been enjoying the adventure genre. I’ve never seen you willingly open a novel, so were you reading them in your bunk with the curtains drawn to make sure James and Pete still admire you? Smuggling them into the loo? Tucking them inside textbooks? No, not that, it would be just as harmful to your image... in disgusting magazines, perhaps?

Speaking of, if I was there I’d whap you on the nose with a newspaper! Bad dog! Not sending James' package! All this time I was feeling betrayed by him but now I know it’s your fault, as most things are. Although I’ll admit it was James’ fault too for entrusting you with my precious books, which, yes, I covered in kisses & gentle caresses as soon as they arrived. Poor things.

One last thing—James wants me to visit, & my parents have given the OK as long as I have you two over afterwards to give James’s mum & dad some peace and quiet. Seeing as I got a chunk of chocolate delivered to my windowsill yesterday with a barely legible note saying 'there’s more where this came from!!' I’m assuming you’re impatient for me to visit as well.

  
See you soon,

  
\- M

PS: The apron was not lacy.”

 

 

“You better mean SOON when you say soon because I’m holding your delicious fancy foreign chocolate hostage and I’ll be taking bites out of it! you know chocolate makes me be sick so you’ll have that on your conscience if you take too long!

Also you HAVE to be joking about your dad’s name! please tell me you’re joking because that is TOO MUCH. I bet whoever bit you spent years planning, searching for the perfect amalgamation of wolfy names before picking you (I learned that amalga-word in one of your books!!)

oh AND YES FUNNY YOU ASK! I’ve found a bird here! her name is Nails and she’s gorgeous and scary-looking and sings, well yells really and I can’t wait to tell you more about her! she has a MOTORBIKE !!!!! and so many stories!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 In the Potter house, the gift of solitude is rare. Particularly with Sirius bungling about... he and James seem to feed off one anothers' energy. I expected this. Like myself, my parents spend most of their time in their heads. This leads to a harmonious, peaceful household. We respect one anothers' space and silence.

I can't say the same for my mates, and I am baffled that I willingly gave up my solitude to be badgered incessantly by them. As if I didn't have my fill during the school year.

Now, however, there are no too-loud teenagers shouting and running into walls, nor are there any middle-aged, exasperated sighs to be found. My tea’s just the right temperature for sipping, and I’ve found the perfect position on my bed for comfortable writing. An old, lightly scratched swing record is playing, which I could never get away with if my mates were here. Spending time with them sweeps me up in their energy, their vibrancy, but my brain and body need peace every now and again as well.

After half a stanza of calm, warm familiarity, Sirius nearly knocks my door down, a familiar occurrence. His damp hair is flopping around, hanging in rain-washed strands. The floor behind him catches my eye, and I frown: he's tracked mud all the way upstairs. My expression, as usual, doesn't phase him—he's got an odd grin on his face. I can't help but drop the sour expression, though I know I'll be the one cleaning the antique rug before the Potters come home.

“Moony! Moony, you like drinking, right?” he asks.

I glance suspiciously for a brown paper bag. There is none.

“Sometimes. Why?” I respond, cautious. 

“Because I’ve got something you’ve got to try, that’s why!”

Good rarely follows when Sirius is this chuffed over something. He plops down at the foot of the guest bed with characteristic gusto, causing my tea to slop down my front and smiling wider in response to my indignant sputter. He takes off his damp jacket and starts digging around its pockets. I want to scold him for getting rainwater and tea on my bed, but I know he won’t listen. Not in this mood. As usual, I tend not to mind, though I wish I would. 

“Look at this,” he says, gesturing excitedly to a tin he has in one hand. 

“Your cigarette case?”

He doesn’t reply, just pops it open and pulls out a hand-rolled cigarette. His next words come in a rush.

“My friends in town gave me this. I think the stuff's called merry-iguana since it’s green and makes you happy or something. They call these ‘spliffs,’ I think that sounds silly. But it’s brilliant, it’s like getting sloshed except so much better, and you don’t puke or anything!”

He seems... exuberant. I can't tell if he honestly misheard the word "marijuana," or is trying to get me to correct him so he can tease me for being uptight.

I’m silent for a few moments, arranging a plan of action. I ought to follow my prefect instincts, chastising him and sending him outside to smoke it on his own. Of course, that would still require my supervising him afterwards; otherwise, he'd be bound to make an arse of himself some way or another. I've already got to clean the rugs he tracked mud on...

The other option, springing to my head from the book-addicted part of me, is to tell him to save it for later so I can go to the library to research. I do already know a bit about cannabis... the group of muggleborns, the ones that smell like incense, have chatted about it in the common room.

Rather than taking the wise plan, or the more tempting one, I feel a mistake coming on.

“You want to smoke it now? Here?”

“Well, the Potters are out of town, so I figure it’s a good time, yeah?”

“Well—won’t James be angry we tried it without him?”

“I’ve smoked loads of times—” he starts.

“You’ve only lived here for two weeks.”

“—and Prongs doesn’t like it much when he does. But I know you will! You think too much and it’ll fix that, except without the tummy-aches or whatever you whinge about when we drink."

I don’t particularly like the idea of not being able to think while alone with Sirius. It seems dangerous. I’ll embarrass myself. And what if the distinctive smell, filling my lungs even now, sticks to my sheets? James’s mum will notice and get angry at me. What if the Potters get home from their trip a day early? or my parents Floo for a chat? or I break something valuable? or the molecules stay in my brain forever and I’m never the same and I drop out of Hogwarts to follow bands all over Europe—?

I realize that as I've been lost in thought, I've also been picking at my nailbeds, pulling off bits of skin. A nervous habit I've never been able to break.

“Okay. Alright.”

I startle myself. I think maybe it’s because Padfoot looks so excited, as if he’ll deflate if I say no. It's impossible for me to resist his puppyish enthusiasm when he's in this mood.

“Excellent!”

Sirius grins, even wider than he usually does, and I return a mild smile. Tucking a particularly pesky bit of hair behind his ear (he needs to get it cut; it’s down to his shoulders now, like those blokes on his record covers...), he sets his jacket and silver case on the bed, gently extracting the marijuana cigarette or whatever it is. 

“Okay, so you’ve smoked fags before, it’s the same as that except you might want to hold it in a little longer maybe, I’m not sure if it helps but Nails does and people seem impressed when she holds her breath for a really long time,” he says, nearly tripping over himself with enthusiasm. "Once she burped up smoke five minutes on!"

I want to comment on the fact that his new girlfriend calls herself Nails but he’s putting the thing between my lips, and I’m nervous—what if I inhale wrong or get it all spitty...? now he’s lighting it so I pull smoke in the way I've done before—

and cough. I hack up an acrid cloud before he hands me my quickly-cooling tea and takes the spliff from me. The burning sensation in my raw lungs lingers.

“I did that too at first. You don’t have to suck as hard as a cigarette.”

He actually sounds kind of gentle. I had expected him to laugh at me. Now, Padfoot takes a puff, all graceful movements and elegant lines, even in a too-tight t-shirt with his hair all drippy. He manages a few smoke rings.

He hands it to me and I try to hold it between my fingers the way he did. He laughs a little, but a friendly one, not a making-fun one, and reaches over to my hand, moving it into proper position. I look up as I inhale this time, and his eyes are focused on my lips, and, oh—I’m definitely feeling something now, something besides Sirius’s glance... head’s all buzzy, pulse feels strange... a shift is taking place.

Sirius is focused on me still, stormy eyes and awful patches of the beard he’s trying to grow, and my heart does something uncomfortable when our looks line up. He holds out his hand and smiles. It takes a moment for me to realize I’ve still got the spliff in my hand so I hand it to him. Everything feels syrupy-slow.

“You like?” he asks after another effortless inhale-exhale. He passes it back. Our fingers touch. 

My skin feel tingly so I look down, failing to answer. I can't help but laugh a bit at the absurd fingertip nubs at the end of my strange, bony primate digits. I had never before realized how ludicrous human anatomy is. After an amount of time I'm incapable of estimating, a moment or a minute, I lock eyes with Sirius again, smile drifting into something different.

His eyes are lidded more heavily than usual, pupils blown black, and I’m imagining that I can sense his warmth, as the side of me that’s next to him feels different... the entire room’s boiling hot, so it’s not that, of course, but my senses seem suddenly heightened.

Though he still looks expectant, I don't reply to Padfoot's question, instead following the puffing-and-passing pattern, until I finally hand him a tiny nub. The music feels like waves, which I suppose it is, waves of vibration carried through a medium—only right now, the music is passing through all of me, not just my ears, is what it feels like. 

My mind drifts to something I read recently, about how heat and light are waves as well, their specific characteristics determined by wavelength. This concept seems infinitely more magical now than scientific. It's truly magnificent how reality fits together, so vast it's impossible to comprehend more than a drop at a time. The wizarding world dismisses science as typical muggle nonsense, missing a magical part of the puzzle, but that's only a few pieces of an infinite puzzleboard as well...

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile for this long,” Sirius suddenly says. For some reason, probably my brain's over-activity, I realize for the first time that his voice has settled comfortably into a lower range than it was last year.

“I feel… well, I’m not thinking less. Not sure how I feel.”

An ugly hack comes after that, then a bit of a cough, because my voice feels rough from choking on too much smoke. I pause as the record comes to an end. In the sudden silence, I can hear Sirius breathe.

“Can you put Ella Fitzgerald on? Or Billie Holiday?” I ask on impulse, glancing down at my amber tea.

“Where's that?” Pads asks, and I feel twitchy, almost, as I look up. Can't help but watch the way his lips look wrapping around the words.

“In the… pile, over there, the stack on the left,” I say, blinking.

Words are a bit harder to summon than usual, and it takes a second for me to gesture where I mean to. Existence is simply passing differently, and it's taking me a bit to adjust.

Sirius smiles, wide, though I’m not sure why. He gets up and shuffles things around for a bit. I stretch back onto my bed, feeling like a cat in a bright sunbeam, calm bliss.

After an amount of time I can't possibly judge, the record comes on with a familiar sound, smooth and warm. I realize after a few moments it’s a bit of a weirdly romantic choice, saxophone and piano, which I had never paid attention to when I listened to it alone. When the room is empty besides me, this record feels gentle and relaxing, but context alters everything. Odd for two mates to be sitting around listening to... and a little embarrassing on my part. Can’t tell Sirius to switch it again, though.

It isn't as if I'm not constantly embarrassing myself, then dwelling on it for too long... what if I simply let this feeling drift off for once?

Glancing out the window behind Sirius and the record player, I notice that the sun’s setting. The sky looks absolutely wild. My thoughts shift briefly over the scientific reasons behind the changes in sky color throughout a day.

“Look at that cloud,” I say, and he does. Well, tries. “No, not that one. The... longish lilac one, with the dark underside.”

It's in front of an enormous one that reminds me of a fairy castle, pink spires and puffs of orange.

“What about it?”

“It’s nice.”

Sirius nods sagely, looking at said cloud, or more likely one near it. After a bit of dramatic gazing, he comes back to the foot of the bed, hopping up onto it, legs now folded under him. Looks at me for a few moments before turning his sleepy-seeming eyes to the window again. I sit up a bit, leaning against the headboard.

“What’s your favorite time of day?” Sirius asks, apropo of nothing, although I suppose I did just demand he look at the sky.

“Mm… morning, when I’m outside and I have a cup of something to warm my hands on… and a book. Crisp air and fog. The world feels different then." For a moment, I drift back to mornings like that, silent and peaceful, everything new, and smile softly. “You?”

“You already know that.” 

“Midnight?”

Sirius beams approvingly for a moment. Of course he loves midnight. He likes being loud best when it's a time he's not supposed to be loud at.

Closing my eyes, calming my thoughts for a little while, I unwind. Perhaps this is what laziness feels like. I had never understood how Peter could sit in one spot for hours on end without fidgeting, but now I think I do. Knots in my back I didn’t know I had are relaxed, buttery instead of locked up and stiff like they’ve been recently. 

I realize I’m only two days away from the full moon, which is why I've been achey and on-edge this week. My momentary relaxation drifts away. I loathe this too-familiar train of reasoning.

“It feels like I’m always defining myself by the calendar.”

“How d’ya mean?”

“The farther I am from the full moon—would it be further? I suppose days are a unit of measurement so—“

“Shush,” Pads says, nudging my leg with his hand. I do shush, lost in thought again. “Well, go on,” he chimes in again.

“The farther I am from the full moon, the more I feel like myself, like dusty books, oversized jumpers and boring music and… thinking too much about everything.”

Momentarily, I feel like I ought to scold myself for rambling about this, overthinking even now, when Sirius is trying to have fun with me. Trying to share something that makes him even more carefree than usual, makes him radiate joy.

“Well, that’s who you are, all of it, and your mates love you for it. Don’t go all mopey.”

Besides Ella's soft, melodic singing, all is quiet for a while after this, though I do follow Padfoot's command and refrain from moping.

I feel warm.

Having friends who know everything (well, nearly) about me, and stick by my side, feels nice. Even after years, I’m still not quite used to it, as if it's an elaborate prank of some kind. Once again, I'm reminded that it isn't. They care for me. I shut my eyes again, watch the shapes moving under my lids, patterns and colors and mathematical fractals. The music feels like soft undulations passing through me. Knowing Sirius is sitting near me makes me feel safe and comfortable, though I think if I tried this on my own I’d be having a quiet breakdown of some sort.

I blink myself out of my head, looking at Sirius instead. He’s turned his head to gaze out the window again. My cloud’s gone now, replaced by a great mass of cottony grey-lavender ones. Padfoot's eyelashes are long and dark. He seems calmer than usual, an open expression on his face.

Time still feels different, though I'm adjusting to the sensation. I don’t know how long I’ve been looking at my friend, studying the curves of his silhouette, backlit by vibrant sunset tones. I wish for an instant that I was an artist. Then I could remember not only how this moment feels, but how unspeakably lovely it looks.

I verbalize a thought I didn't know I was having--“Everything feels like candyfloss. The world’s all soft and warm and sugary and slow.”

Sirius turns his eyes to me when I talk. I cap the sentence with a small smile and glance down. His look’s making me feel strange, after observing him so intently.

“Candyfloss’s slow? Wait, what’s candyfloss?”

I laugh, but I don’t answer. Too much effort. A long pause, and he goes back to looking out the window, apparently entranced by the clouds now that I’ve pointed them out. Padfoot is always moving, so full energy and ideas and laughter that it seems to pain him to keep it in. Now he simply looks… relaxed. Happy without needing a reason. Peaceful. Odd that incinerating and inhaling dried vegetation can affect us in so many ways.

For once, Sirius is as quiet as I am, but not the kind that comes from being too loud inside, the way I often find myself.

My gaze drifts outside again, and the two of us sit nearly motionlessly for a time.

The sky reaches a turning point, and is quickly growing darker. A familiar white disc begins to take her place in the sky. Colors and light begin to appear unreal, eerie, though the effect is probably more internal than innate to the view out the window. I can feel the moon. On nights like this, so near to giving my body over to the wolf, I can sense the moon's pull like tides in my blood.

Usually, I resent this sensation. At the moment, I am at peace, and feel the ebb and flow connecting me to her without judgment. It is as much a part of me as the beating of my heart.

“I do like it.” I surprise myself, voice so soft I'm not sure he'll hear me.

“What?” Turns his eyes back to me, confused. Brow furrowed slightly.

“Your question earlier." Much, much earlier, I realize. "I'm glad we smoked. I’m not thinking less like you mentioned. I’m thinking more... but it's different.”

"My head's nowhere at all... like those meditating Tibetan wizard blokes you told me about, Rem, you remember the ones..?" I'm surprised he can recall that, because he rarely looks like he's listening when I ramble to him about my latest library book. After pausing, Sirius adds a less rhetorical question. "What sort of thoughts are you thinking?"

However dismissive he's been to me before, he sounds genuinely fascinated now. It feels... good. Warm and sugary, like how time is dripping by.

“I was thinking earlier about sound, how it’s just vibrations travelling in a wave, the way water does; our brains turn it to a cohesive meaning—light and heat travel in waves too—and just now I was thinking about how time feels like it’s moving differently because we burned and breathed a plant, and _what the bloody hell even is time_ to begin with?” I say in a flood, and as I catch my breath, Sirius laughs, delighted. 

“How's your head do all that at once without bursting?"

He pauses for a few moments as the song transitions to one of my favorites. The new tune results in Sirius tilting his head, a faraway look in his eye. A response to sound he's developed from spending a considerable amount of time as a dog (the Potters apparently think James is feeding a stray).

Then; "Personally, right now I'm thinking of putting on one of my new records. Sirius music.”

“This is serious, it’s—it’s jazz,” I say, and then groan. “Oh, no.” Oh _no._

“Hmm?”

Sirius is trying to hold back his bark-laugh, the really loud one, I can tell. He knows what's happened, and it's taking some restraint to pretend otherwise.

“I’ve gone and made a Sirius pun by accident.”

Another groan. I sink into the bed, face feeling mildly pink. One of the first things I ever wrote in my journal after starting at Hogwarts was a solemn oath never to make a Sirius pun, and I’ve been holding myself to it admirably.

My friend replies by finally letting himself laugh, scooting off the bed and saluting me for some reason I’m sure is clear to him. I can't help but smile gently in return.

After he’s exited the room, the sky outside catches my eye. In an instant, I’m back to thinking about the moon, how it’s replacing the sun right now, gravity stronger and light cooler. Although, of course, it’s not a literal replacement, as the sun stays where it is while the earth is orbiting it and the moon's orbiting us, much, much, much smaller than the sun, so it's, of course, not literally replacing the sun. Of course.

Fidgeting with my hands quickly turns to self-destructive gnawing at my cuticles. 

I told Sirius I feel like I’m myself when the moon’s smaller in the sky, but for what feels like half the time, I’m not entirely me, am I? I’m sharing Remus-me with a wolf, as the inexplicable universe reminds me every time I look at my or my parents’ names. Right now, by this time in the cycle, I’m Remus but I’m very much the wolf too. Sirius is probably the only one who knows that. I’m sure he smells it whenever he’s a dog, since I can even smell it on myself. I don’t like that he can tell. It makes me feel vulnerable, like the wolf does when it’s on its back, stomach bared.

He's always gentler with me near the moon, as if he thinks I’m fragile and tender, and maybe I am, but that doesn’t mean he should be aware of it—I feel a little irritated with Padfoot now, for some reason. For pitying me, for being as caring as he is, and because he doesn’t want me to notice his kindness... as if it’s some secret only a few people know, which, of course, it is.

I wish Sirius couldn't see though my disguise when the wildness in me grows stronger, as it is tonight.

The moon tints my experiences, and with just two nights til she's at her strongest, I'm growing more uneasy as the sky darkens. This is getting me nowhere. Rehashing the stressful spirals I get myself into all the time. This time, though, I purposefully allow my tension to dissolve. No use dwelling on these things, though I can rarely help myself... I melt into the music again, letting go of my thoughts as they become tangled up like kitten-mauled string.

As soon as I settle back into calm again, I hear boots stomping from the hallway and Padfoot enters, loud, still smelling of wet dog.

“You good?” he asks me, and I’m smiling at him and now he’s returning it, so I don’t say anything.

Not good, but better now.

Sirius crosses the room, my eyes on the hollow at the center of his back as he fiddles with the record player. Teaching him how it worked was much easier than I expected, and he seems to have taken to muggle music quickly. Unfortunately, we do not share taste.

As I sit up and lean forward, elbows on my knees, something jangly, rough, loud and repetitive comes on. My peace drifts away. I frown at my friend. 

“It’s the Sex Pistols, don’t tell me you don’t like them,” he says, looking comically affronted. 

“I suppose it’s… ah, energetic. I can see why you'd enjoy it.”

“Because it’s bloody brilliant, just like me?” Sirius replies, a mischievous note to his expression.

“That's not how I'd put it...”

Sirius perches himself on my bed, finally loosening the laces on his clunky boots. Dried mud flakes onto the floor. His hair hangs low in strands, and as he leans forward, his shirt rides up. My eyes settle on a pale patch of slender waist.

He finishes with his boots, and I hurriedly glance up to his face as he sits up. Sirius catches my gaze, face unreadable. Some hair is still hanging over his eyes, which looks absolutely ridiculous; he blows a carefully aimed puff of air, and most of it settle to the sides of his face. Still, I'm bothered by the strands remaining out of place. For once I do something without thinking, leaning forward and tucking the remainder behind his now-pierced ear, fingers trailing gingerly. The grating music seems to be drowning out my thoughts, obliterating my ability to control impulses. 

After my traitorous hand drops to my lap, Sirius' expression shifts slightly, though I still can't interpret it. Then, the corners of his mouth tilt up.

“So you honestly hate this record?" he asks. I shrug guiltily. "Suppose you’d like it more if the lyrics were in iambic pentameter.“ His smile widens, and I laugh in reply.

I’m not surprised he knows that phrase, despite his posturing otherwise. He’s intelligent, effortlessly so, just isn't fond of people knowing. Sirius shifts positions, moving up to the head of the bed, where he settles as he moves my leather-bound notebook out of the way. 

I lean back against pillows, one arm resting against his pleasantly, warmly, and close my eyes. My body is humming with a sensation I haven't gotten used to yet. Perhaps more than one. For now, I'll let that go without examination.

This music is truly awful... did he turn the volume up?

I hear pages flutter, and Sirius lets out a bit of a stifled laugh.

“Don’t tell me that’s really what you were doing?” Sirius says, sounding delighted. I open my eyes.

“Give me that!” Suddenly, I’m irritated with him again, because he’s reading private things that no one’s supposed to read. Besides, it’s not like writing poetry is something he and James admire in their mates—he won’t give me it, he’s just laughing, ridiculous hair falling in his sodding face again. I reach for the notebook, but he holds it as far from me as his arm can reach.

“No, no, let me read it, Moony!”

I make another grab for it, leaning over him as far as I can, but the attempt is futile.

“I did actually read the sonnets or whatever it is that you gave me,” he says, grinning, eyes on my poetry held aloft over the bedside table. I feel a tinge of annoyance at that, because I didn’t give him sonnets like I was trying to romance him, I had given him my old collection of Shakespeare that happened to include poetry...

I huff.

“What? It’s not like I’ll laugh at your writing.”

“Give me my bloody book. I'm **not** asking again.” Berk.

“’Porcelain teeth cracked from crunching bone—‘“ he reads before I’m fed up and shoving him off the bed, attempting again to take my bloody _personal journal_ from someone who has no respect for concepts such as “my” or “personal."

Sirius doesn't seem phased by toppling off the bed with a heavy thud, and sprawls out on his back as if he rolled off on purpose. He's holding the book over his face so he can read it again.

“I’m not laughing, just let me read—‘cracked from crunching bone, loose in sockets they don’t fit anymore’—this seems _modern_ , Moony, I’m surprised,” except the last part doesn’t come out so well because I’m on the ground too now, knee on either side of him, trying to wrestle the damn book from his hands.

"Just—would you fucking—stop being a wanker and give me that!"

I'm upset with him for invading my boundaries, ignoring me when I tell him not to, I'm mad at him for--for eating all my chocolate before I got here, even though he knew it'd make him vomit... mad that he's probably replacing me for the summer with his new friends, irritated with him for putting on his fucking idiot music that makes it so I can’t think anymore—

I can feel this music in me same as my record, instead except of gentle waves it’s like being buffeted with choppy pent-up emotions. Repetitive instruments that feel like they're boring into my skull.

Still no success at grappling for my journal.

Sirius was laughing at first when I tackled him, but then he looked into my eyes and inhaled deeply like he could smell my mental state—I wonder very briefly if he carries canine around in him like I do, as I’ve wondered often before.

In the process of keeping my book out of reach, Sirius accidentally elbows me, and copper blooms in my mouth. Looking him in the darkened eyes as my tongue flicks over my bleeding lip brings out an awful cliché almost-growl from the less human part of me.

Something animal takes place when we make that eye contact, though I can't put my finger on what. He seems angry now too, for some reason, eyes narrowed. Sirius bloody well smells mad, like soggy fur and restrained violence to match my own. Soon, I’ve almost got him pinned to the carpet. I'm breathing heavily, dislodging a drop of red from my split lip, which lands on his neck.

I can't keep him down for long enough to take my book—he’s strong, muscles straining against my own wirey frame, tonight fortified by the moonlight. We struggle, and I manage to pin him well, but his hand’s still clinging tight to my private writing so I shove myself forward, almost reach it—when a different set of instincts kick in. My body’s telling me to move against him in a less-than-violent way and I can’t think, can barely repress the urge...

Padfoot (and he is Padfoot now, not Sirius, even in this body)... he takes advantage of my distraction. He’s got me flipped over on my back in moments, and I am overly sensitized for a number of reasons. He's hot with pumping blood and emotions running too high... I am angry about everything I’ve ever forgiven him for. I struggle under him, nearly grab my journal again. He’s making an aggressive sound in the back of his throat that the human part of my brain wouldn’t even notice. My inner wolf, lurking much closer to the surface than usual, is attuned to his signals.

My reaction earlier, that little thrill of arousal, might be leading somewhere, somewhere centered downwards, and the human part of my brain awakens to panic—oh fuck, this is why I should’ve refused to smoke with Sirius and—why can't I ever turn down his absurd ideas—?

Padfoot’s houndish hips are above mine. His free hand holds my thin wrist pinned, thumb digging in. He’s looking at me intently, eyes flicking to the blood on my mouth. It crosses my mind that he’s wearing those awful, tight jeans one of his new friends gave him and—oh. Oh. Well. There’s why he’s had me pinned this long. Why he looks a touch confused now, and why my biology is reacting in turn.

My thighs shift apart slightly, strictly against my permission. My body’s shouting conflicting things at me, but that involuntary action is the final straw. Now my brain’s finally saying something with clarity: that if I can't restrain myself, Sirius won’t want to talk to me when we’re back to normal.

I need to get out from under him, I need to go to the bathroom to get control of myself, I need to never smoke another spliff, and Merlin, I need to change the fucking music... 

Sirius shifts his position to steady himself, still panting heavily from exertion and... well. My animal instincts are piloting me. As I inhale, I can smell exactly how he’s feeling, even over the metallic tang of my blood. Padfoot wants me, for some damned reason. I hold his intent gaze, focus on his blown-out pupils, nudge my legs a touch further apart. I move my hips up just enough for him to notice. Every nerve I have is on edge, tense, my teeth digging into my raw lip. I can feel him against me.

He fucking laughs.

Padfoot's expression dissolves into something inexplicable.

He’s laughing, eyes crinkling, he’s rolled off of me, he’s laying on the floor beside me, smiling and laughing some more—like he's letting out all the conflicting things he's feeling, condensing them into one out-of-place reaction. The song switches while he’s catching his breath. I am motionless. Feel a little stunned. Chest is heaving.

“I can't believe you got so worked up over a bloody book,” Sirius says, laughs shortly, breath still unsteady.

He's looking at me, our faces too close, and the details of his features seem too crisp and clear to be real. Pores and spots, wiry hairs on his jaw. I wish this goddamn drug would wear off already.

“I mean, I knew you wrote poetry, I just wanted to see what you write about.” A noticeable pause before Sirius speaks again. “And... I’m sorry I betrayed your trust or whatever. I should’ve given you it. I suppose.”

He actually does look sorry, all puppy-eyed and pathetic. I can tell he’s not just putting the expression on, like he usually does.

Whatever came over me earlier, or forcibly took me over, rather, melts away quicker than it arrived. I am utterly drained and empty, not even forgiveness left in me. One thing I do feel is eager to forget what I've learned about myself today. Tuck it somewhere and pretend it's gone. My tongue darts over my stinging lip again, which I then wipe with my sleeve.

“You won’t tell James or Peter?” I ask him. There are multiple ways I mean for him to interpret the question. About the poetry, and about what had happened, and what thankfully hadn't, between us.

“Of course not.”

We're silent, besides still-heavy breath. Eye contact is overwhelming, so I look at the mole on his chin. Finally:

“D’ya… would you let me maybe finish that one poem, Moony? It’s just, I liked it and…”

He falls silent, searching for words. I turn my eyes to the ceiling to avoid his imploring look.

“No. Maybe eventually.” 

“I want to get to know you better is all. There’s something bloody fascinating going on in you all the time but you never let any of it out, except it seems like maybe you do and I just can’t read it... I'd like to.” Quiet for a beat. "But if it takes a while to trust me with the book I get it. I do."

This makes me feel strange, stranger than the drugs are, maybe because it’s the first time Sirius’s ever said anything this serious without laughing afterward. A wave of odd warm fluttering passes through me, and I don't think it's anything I smoked.

“I'll show it to you someday. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cheesy song, couldn't help myself... oblivious boys...
> 
> "It's not the pale moon that excites me  
> That thrills and delights me  
> Oh no, it's just the nearness of you"


	2. Bored Teenagers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I close my eyes, focusing on trust, on the steadiness beneath me and under my hands, and the cool air flowing around us. We’re not flying fast enough to send Sirius' hair flapping, so it only tickles under my chin when my face is too close to him. For once, my senses are shouting at me louder than my brain is. It's... not quite exhilarating, but close to it.
> 
> Velocity shifts—we’re going faster now—and faster still. The streetlights below are blurring and my legs are tight around him again, clinging on for dear life. I only notice I’m gnawing on my freshly healed lip when I taste copper again, feel the sting. It centers me. "

 

“If you took a shit and it was alive would you flush it?” Sirius asks pensively.

“I wouldn't. It’d kind of be my child, wouldn’t it?” replies James, impaling a marshmallow on a stick perhaps a bit more violently than necessary.

“Well, what if it started trying to bite you?”

“Is it like, anthropomorphic, or is it just a brown brick wiggling about?”

“You should talk to Pomfrey if you’ve got bricks coming out of your arse.”

“Log, then.”

“Even worse.”

“Sentient brown bangers and mash?”

“Stop trying to describe the shape of your arse nuggets, Prongs. I’m asking you an imperative question and I demand your answer.” He huffs, indignant.

As I often do, I sit silent, not entirely paying attention to the groundbreaking scientific inquiry occurring around the fire pit. The familiar cadence of their conversation puts me at ease.

My mind drifts. After all this time, I still fail to understand how my mates can simply... say what springs into their heads. They obviously have never worried for a moment that their thoughts are unworthy of being spoken aloud. In fact, I'm not sure they think, period, without verbalizing it.

The breeze feels cool on my back, but my feet propped up by the fire pit are pleasantly toasty. Shadows jump and dance around us, and for a minute I watch them on the trees farther back in the Potters' yard. Eventually, as the fire dims, I reach next to me and toss another bit of split wood into its hungry, flickering maw. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the light in James’s parents’ room turning off. Now, the night is only illuminated by the half-moon hanging low over us, a smattering of stars, and the fire. It tentatively licks at the fresh fuel I threw in.

I wonder absently if this is the sort of night I’ll be remembering when we’re all grey-haired and talking about the grand ol’ days. Prongs and Padfoot will, of course, likely relive their greatest pranks or Quidditch matches, exaggerating with every repetition. They’ll laugh about the daft things James’s done involving poor lovely Lily, and recall the most creative hexes they've cast on Slytherins.

Those memories aren't really the ones that I find myself coming back to, though. Sitting about with my mates, feeling accepted even in silence, stuffed full of sweets, is what sticks in my head the best, I think. 

Gazing into the fire is meditative. I feel utterly at peace, tuning my friends' comforting chatter out. After a time, I turn my eyes to the sky sprawling out above us, a map too vast to read. An airplane catches my eye, so I watch it blink across the sky, less significant than an insect, yet by the numbers more important than me, one human to one hundred...

“Your marshmallow’s on fire, Pads,” James warns him, interrupting a thoroughly thought-out explanation of Sirius’s plan of action in case of toilet uprisings.

“Burning is an integral part of perfect s’mores production,” he sniffs, although he does take it out and wave his stick around, fanning the flames even larger. Finally, he blows it out with effort, admiring the charred, amorphous mass. "Simply stunning! Magnificent!"

“Revolting. Like you,” James mutters.

“What about you, Moony? What would you do in my, er, clearly hypothetical scenario?” Sirius asks me as he attempts to extract his marshmallow from its stick. Instead, its blackened exoskeleton sloughs off, leaving a gooey mass behind. “Eugh.” He tosses the skin into the fire.

“Flush it. I’d assume it was something you two were behind.”

“Fair assumption,” James chimes in. My internal prefect alarm bells begin to chime.

"Haha. Behind," adds Sirius usefully.

"Wait, are you plotting something?"

If they pulled it off, frankly, I'd just be impressed, because it'd take some ingenious spellwork. If only the two of them would dedicate their heads to something useful.

“Lookit the marshmallow, it’s waving goodbye,” James deflects, pointing to the fire.

It is, or more accurately, it’s bubbling and writhing in a way that makes me question the safety of its ingredients. James waves back. The night is quiet now, Sirius focused on roasting his newly naked marshmallow to perfection while James is munching on his completed s’more. He's got a great smear of chocolate under his nose.

"How's things with Nails?" I ask Sirius on a whim, as the subject's come to mind a few times tonight.

"Fucking fantastic!" he says, suddenly bursting with enthusiasm. "She's **—** oh, you've got to meet her. This weekend her band's got a gig in the city, you and James ought'ta come!" (at the mention of his name, James makes a dismissive sound).

"Will it be loud?" is my first thought. Sirius smiles. "What kind of question is that, of course it will," I realize.

"That's sort of the point, mate."

"I don't know..."

His smile turns to a melodramatic frown. 

My stomach is knotting up at the thought of seeing Nails perform, though I haven't felt unsettled by Sirius' flings before. He's never spent more time with a bird than with the Marauders til now, though, which may have something to do with it. He finds Nails... exciting, thrilling, new and full of shiny bits of metal. I can understand how getting into trouble with her is more appealing to Sirius than loafing around tossing things at me as I read, dull and gangly... I start to pick at my cuticles, peeling back bits just beginning to heal.

"Honestly, Sirius, I don't know what you see in her," James says after a generous helping of silence, and Sirius' exasperated sigh suggests that they've gone through this before.

"She's wicked talented with Muggle instruments and she's got a motorbike! And she's... er, pretty."

"Pretty? Last time it was 'got great tits,' now she's pretty." A laugh.

"Shh, Moony's virtuous ears aren't suited for that sort of talk."

Soft chuckles, silence. Small dots of orange float off of the crackling fire, drifting up with the wind and smoke.

Nails. She of sexual appeal and angry music. I already don't like her much, although I'm fond of Sirius and she sounds quite like him. 

To interrupt my fidgeting before I peel too much off and start bleeding, I sip my mug of now-cool chamomile tea. Padfoot and Prongs had teased me for bringing it out into the backyard, but I have certain rituals to a night’s end and can’t sleep well without following them. I wonder again what's appealing at all about keeping me around, a creature of habit, exasperation, and silence. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

There are many ways to wake up. To the sun rising, filtering in peacefully through the curtains. A mate passing gas shockingly loudly one bed over. A horrifying dream. A too-pleasant dream about someone it shouldn't be. To birds chirping outside, or a piercing alarm going off. Possibly to a massive, shaggy dog leaping onto your torso and covering your face in saliva.

“What—why—“ I sputter.

He answers my question with a very tiny woof and another generous helping of dog-spit. As Padfoot pants, uncomfortably warm breath puffs against my cheeks. I manage a glance at my clock.

“Bloody hell, Pads, it’s four in the morning.”

He bounces up and down on top of me, oversized paws landing on my likely-bruising chest. The wind is knocked out me with every thump. I ought to shove him off me and curl back up under the sheets. I do not.

“D’you want me to get up or are you just here t'suffocate me?” The words emerge as a mumble.

Another small sound (I’m glad he’s at least considerate enough not to wake the Potters) and he bounds off the bed, nails clicking on the guest room’s wooden floor.

“Fine. Let me get dressed. Are we going outside?”

He nods, as well as a dog can nod. Closer to the bouncing he was doing earlier than a coordinated movement. Sitting up and tossing my sheet off, I rub my crusted-shut eyes and internally curse the moment I met the whirlwind of impulsiveness now chewing his fleabitten tail a yard away. God, what a nasty sound. Wet snorting. I'm not sure how I stand him.

As I put my trousers on, groggy, I try to remember what I had been dreaming about before it slips out of my head, as it always does. It's one I've had before. Usually, I awaken on my own at the end of the dream, sweating cold and breathing heavy. I'm glad, at least, that this time I haven't had to experience the rest of it—there had been a devastated street in my nightmare, familiar, but I can't recall what had happened there. What always happened. What my brain didn't want to retain.

When I jolt awake from that particular recurring dream, it generally takes me a while to settle back in and fall asleep again. After sharing a room with him for six years, Padfoot may have seen this one coming... perhaps he decided to interrupt the pattern. In a couple of instances, he's informed me that I make awful, pathetic sounds, waking him up when I have nightmares...

While I'm tightening the laces on my trainers, Padfoot nudges my thigh with a cold nose. I take a slightly drooled-on jumper out of his mouth. As soon as I do, he trots out the bedroom door. I follow, slipping his slobbery woolen gift over my head.

I trail sleepily after a vague quadrupedal shape, down creaking stairs, across kitchen tile. He nudges the handle of the back door, prompting me to unlock and turn it... wind drifts in, cool and bracing, still carrying the scent of the campfire. Once we’re outside, my eyes are drawn to the sky. It’s not as breathtakingly full as it is at Hogwarts, where there’s no city lights to drown out the cosmos, but the stars from here are beautiful all the same. Pinpricks of unfathomable heat and light. Presence in the vacuum.

Padfoot leads me to the shed and I begin to feel wary. Somehow, I doubt he’s dragged me from my slumber to look at lawn care implements. He finds his way to the shed door, pausing to sniff a bush or two, and soon he’s Sirius again, newly human hands opening the shed.

“Stay there.”

 I do, looking up at the sky again and yawning. I find myself wishing absently that I was miffed with Sirius... it's far too early to be awake, and every bit of my body wants to be back in bed. Somehow, though, I'm not irritated at the interruption.

Glittering constellations catch my eye. They always make me feel pleasantly unimportant. No matter what happens down here, they will remain unchanged, uncaring. 

The knocking and bumping about in the shed grows louder... there’s only one thing Sirius could be getting.

The only times I’ve been on a broom I’ve gotten off quivering. He’s forgotten, apparently. A sudden crash echoes inside the shed and Sirius stumbles out a second later, favoring one leg, overpriced broom in hand. The gilt on its handle reflects the moonlight, glittering faintly. 

“I’m fine. Nothing happened. No need to ask.” He shifts his weight and winces a bit.

“You know I don’t like flying. Who's broom am I to use?" Sleep still on my lips, I'm speaking softer than usual.

"Mine."

"Aren't you...?"

"Yeah.”

He takes a few steps, careful on his leg. I can hardly see his face though the sky is glowing softly, since Sirius is standing in a shadow now.

“Why?” I ask, and by that I mostly mean ‘why’ve you woken me up at four to sit on one broom together when James was sleeping a room over?’

“Because you don’t like flying.”

Apparently he thinks I was only asking about the shared broom. Or he means he woke me up for the sole purpose of forcing me to do something I hate. I want to believe the second one just so I can be pissed off at Sirius, but I know it’s not true, even though I can’t think of any possible motive he’d have to drag me out here.

Well. Since when has Sirius Black needed a motive to do something ill-advised?

“Up for it?” I can hear in his voice that he’s smiling a little.

Am I? Every time I've gotten more than five feet from the ground, my heart starts pounding and my muscles tense. It makes me nauseous, head swimming with stress.

“...fine.”

As always, I acquiesce. He's confident I'd never turn his terrible, often downright dangerous, ideas down. We both know that I can be roped into anything that crosses his mind.

It’s difficult to settle into position on the broom, because the cushioning charm only covers a one-person-sized area... we end up sharing the padded part of the stick, though frankly, that's just as uncomfortable as endangering my bollocks on the thin part of it.

“Hands,” Sirius says, and I gingerly place a hand on his shoulder.

“Waist, I meant.”

My mind darts to how many times he’s had his hands on Nails’ hips when she’s taken him out on her motorbike. When they've... participated in other activities. I follow his instructions, placing both of my palms, tentative, on the smallest point of his waist. His skin is warm through his shirt. I feel oddly jumpy, not at all sleepy anymore. Hyperaware.

“Ready?” he asks, except it’s not really a question, as we’re off the ground before it’s out of his mouth. Suddenly, there's nothing at all under my feet. As we ascend, my heart does curious things against my ribcage. Surely, human beings don't have wings for a reason... why tempt fate with enchanted branches and twigs?

My grip tighten as I inhale, sharp. I wonder if Padfoot can smell my fear, since he’s said he feels much doggier after he’s been... shaggy... for a while. Did he spend the entire night as a mutt on the rug by my bed? Last I could remember, he was dozing, shedding copious amounts of fur as I read an ancient, odd-smelling book, lit by my Charms homework. A temporary modification of eternal candlelight... good that nothing caught on fire... need to be more careful.

As Sirius urges the broom in a new direction, leaning alarmingly, the neighborhood becomes clearer, isolated illumination in a vaster abyss of absence...

There is nothing at all for many yards underneath us.

Thinking to distract myself from flying by withdrawing into my head... not working so well anymore. 

Sirius is steering us slowly, much slower than I know he would if he was in the air alone. He lives to risk death.

As soon as I adjust to the earth vanishing from beneath me, and my grip loosens on his sides, Sirius speeds up, taking us higher. The wind whips. I risk a look below us. There’s treetops and shadows, and I crane my neck to look back at James’s house... In moments, I can barely see its dark roof anymore, and there’s nothing but air behind me—I can’t imagine what would happen to me if I fell and the thought sends my mind racing. What if Sirius flies us into a goose flock, or a bat flaps into his face, or I accidentally let go of him—what if a low-flying plane sweeps us up in its airstream?

"You OK?” Sirius asks.

I can barely hear him despite our proximity. I focus on him, a solid presence, instead of the uncertainty around me, and he glances back with a reassuring smile. Somehow, it works, and I let my hands loosen a tad, sliding back the space I’d apparently inched forward, no longer pressed against him. My legs are clamped tight at the knees against his hips, so I relax those a little too. Need to stop overthinking.

I close my eyes, focusing on trust, on the steadiness beneath me and under my hands, and the cool air flowing around us. We’re not flying fast enough to send Sirius' hair flapping, so it only tickles under my chin when my face is too close to him. For once, my senses are shouting at me louder than my brain is. It's... not quite exhilarating, but close to it.

Velocity shifts—we’re going faster now—and faster still. The streetlights below are blurring and my legs are tight around him again, clinging on for dear life. I only notice I’m gnawing on my freshly healed lip when I taste copper again, feel the sting. It centers me. When we're rocketing so fast upwards that I can't feel anything but biting wind, Sirius  _laughs._ The bloody bastard laughs. Loudly, too, even if half of it is lost in the airflow around us. A small bark of a laugh catches in my throat too, startling me.

Sirius steers us higher. It's very dark and yet everything is lit gently; a glow from the sky above us, the half-moon and winking stars. He slows after we've gained altitude, and we glide for a while, peaceful. I have never felt more awake, despite the absurd time.

We dip down. My stomach leaps into my throat. The angle becomes even more severe. Sirius is laughing again, and I realize I’m grinning, even though my pulse is thrumming uncomfortably.

I'm giddy. Sick, stomach in my throat, but giddy.

Lower. There’s a lake beneath us, water ink-black and placid. We’re approaching it very quickly... too quickly... one miscalculation on my friend's part and we could end the night by drowning.

I find myself clinging tighter to Sirius once again. The angle we’re flying at increases, and I slide forward until my chest is pressed against his back. My arms are wrapped nearly entirely around Sirius' firm waist, which should be embarrassing; I’m too full of adrenaline, fear, and thrill to care, and somehow I know he doesn't mind it. What else did he expect?

If I let go of him, I'll fall. That isn't the only reason I'm holding on this tight.

Deep, dark water is right in front of us now. I can barely see it through midnight colored, musky smelling hair, which is flying back around my face now.

Suddenly, with moments to spare, we’re gliding horizontally again at a much safer pace.

Padfoot’s apparently bare toes lightly skim the top of the cool water, just enough that a gentle ripple rises behind us. My feet skate the surface as well, and I am surprised to find that I don't mind it, though I know my trainers will be soggy and squelchy for the walk back inside. In this moment, nothing matters but how I—how we—feel.

Sirius whoops loudly, and I find myself joining in, grin as wide as my face can handle, wider. There is nothing supporting us but air, black mirror beneath us, reflecting the void and stars and moon above. Free.

There’s exhilaration, joy, simple _thrill_ in my chest. I wonder why I am afraid of flying at all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 "Wormtail,

 

Either you've drowned and washed out to sea, or you've found yourself one of those women with loose morals you seem to think Majorca is overflowing with. Please get back to me soon, you know I worry. It's what I'm best at. Did you get the book and pamphlet I sent? I expect you haven't touched them, but it's never too early to start preparing for your future. NEWTS are much closer than they seem.

I'm not writing just to wag my finger at you. I also need a bit of advice. Please don't faint, I know you wouldn't expect to hear that from me... however, it seems my sanity is drifting the longer I spend at the Potters. 

When we were younger, remember how you'd go along with any daft scheme P&P presented to you? Even if it came with an inherent risk of bodily harm? It seems you've been finding yourself lately, meeting new people, refining an ability to ignore not-so-new-people when it's in your best interest. I don't think I've told you, because it makes me sound like a condescending prat, but I'm proud of you. I know you've said before you're not sure how you got sorted the way you did, but Peter, lately you've absolutely been a Gryffindor. It takes nerve to turn P&P down when they're in... that mood. You know the one.

I need your help.

How do you do it? How do you tell them no? It's a skill you're growing better at, & I'm failing miserably. Seems I'm getting worse at refusing them as the years go by, & now... well, I've been swept up in some things I really oughtn't be doing. 

Please reply. I'm supposed to keep ~~him~~ them in line.

 

\- M"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "When we're sitting  
> Watching the planes  
> Burn up through the night  
> Like meteorites
> 
> We're just bored teenagers  
> Looking for love or should I say emotional rages  
> Bored teenagers  
> Seeing ourselves as strangers"


	3. The Way You Look Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Observing the procedure with vague amusement, I notice that besides the untidy eyeliner, his lips look particularly debauched as well. They're either raw from too much rough snogging with Nails, or red for the same reason... she's fond of dark lipstick.
> 
> 'D'you remember how Nails has a motorbike?'
> 
> As Sirius speaks, he looks up at me, so I put my thoughts aside, trying to look him in the eyes rather than the mouth.
> 
> He finally slips his jacket off after a fierce (and pathetic) battle, accompanied with a curse as he stabs himself with one of its spiked lapels. My chest feels oddly tight as I look at him, rakish with an air of rebellion, even if he's not sure what he's rebelling against."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while... i've grown as a writer after a few years of college, so i basically rewrote the last couple of chapters. i also took down the previous third one (blank spots in the summer left to be filled before i post it again).
> 
> and hey: content warning on this chapter for casual homophobia.  
> it's the 1970s. the wizarding world (which rowling has described as "conservative" when it comes to things like sex ed) is stuck in the past in most ways. why would they be decades ahead of muggles in one particular area? in England, until 1967 you could be jailed for sodomy.  
> James honestly doesn't know he's being a dick. he's taking it for granted that Sirius is straight... just trying to tease him. for most folks, that's what being queer was at the time: a punchline.

In what is by now a deeply predictable pattern, my peace tonight is hard-won and woefully quick to disperse. Sirius, harbinger of chaos, is out, as he has been most nights this summer. Mr. and Mrs. Potter have gone to bed, James is in the shower, and I'm absorbed in a fascinating academic text regarding the unique magical fauna of New Guinea. There's something about these creatures that enthralls me... it could be the fact that I myself am a magical beast, one much more dangerous than most I'm reading about, but I'd like to think there's more to it than that.

The living room is empty, quiet save James' faint, tinny singing voice echoing down from the upstairs bathroom. My worn book is lit by a cozily warm-toned lamp, which is hanging over my favourite chair in the Potter house: ornate and magnificent, velvety crimson cushions with just the right amount of springiness. Over the past few weeks, I've refined the optimum position in said chair for maximum comfort and relaxation. Thus, opportunities to read in it undisturbed are ones I cherish.

As I turn the page to a new chapter, I curl my lanky legs up under me, feeling content and calm. That sensation is always the first sign something exhausting is approaching... a fact driven firmly into my head by my choice in company.

With characteristic overzealousness, and despite the late hour, Sirius bangs open the front door. I jump in my seat, cursing quietly. The cycle repeats itself. Along with him comes a gust of summer wind, and my peace flees out the door when Sirius slams it shut again. Though he isn't falling over himself, he seems a touch off balance. As he speaks, he waves a foil-wrapped food item, punctuating his sentences with it.

“Moony!”

A grin, a slightly stumbling step. Something about him looks new. Oddly... pretty. Can't put my finger on what.

“You _won't. fucking. believe._ the night I've had!”

Ah, there's what's changed: he's apparently taken to emulating his girlfriend's makeup habits, along with every other element of her appearance. His bright, boozy eyes are outlined in smudged black, like Cleopatra after an afternoon of debauchery. Not a bad look, though I feel a little uneasy thinking so.

“I've lost my ability to be surprised by anything you say or do.”

Sirius responds by trotting closer, then foists his dubious leftovers upon me.

“Try it.”

“Do I want to know what it is?”

“Good. Try it!”

I lift an eyebrow. Somehow, he gives the impression of a living exclamation point in reply. A skill, to be sure.

“I know it smells off but it's bloody fantastic, Moony, go ahead, it's like that foot cheese you fancy! Muggles can fucking cook, let me tell you...”

Examining his expectant expression, I conclude that this exchange will last forever if I don't give in, so I warily unwrap what I discover to be a sandwich. At least, it would fit some loose definitions of one.

Bracing myself, I raise the greyish thing to my mouth and take a tentative bite, knowing full well what I'm walking into, incapable of resisting.... I tend to think of my palate as mildly refined, at least beyond the prevailing Marauder criteria of “does it look vaguely edible?” Still, I can't imagine the thing I'm chewing is edible by even slobbery Padfoot standards. My first impression is of rubbery semi-solid slime, then a sharp note of toenail fungus and a fair helping of sludgy pondwater to finish off the mouthfeel.

I retch. Sirius grins.

Putrid. Nightmare fuel. And yet I can't work up a drop of indignance. What had I expected? It's never wise to eat anything James or Sirius seems excited for you to put in your mouth... after opening up the foil wrapper enough to form a pocket beside the sandwich, I allow half-masticated mush to fall into it. Sirius, predictably, cracks up. His laugh has a self-satisfied tone to it.

“I'm never going to get tired of that face. You've got the best nauseous look, Moony, you really do.”

He imitates my near-death experience, upper lip crinkled and tongue looking lewd.

“Thanks, I do live to entertain,” I reply sarcastically, though I also burp up stomach acid in the process. Swallowing it, and unfortunately washing the flavor of slug corpse deeper, I continue, tossing the sandwich back to Sirius. “Did you scavenge this from a sewer?”

“Jolly good guess! Raccoon nest, actually! ”

He looks proud of himself.

Sirius begins the process of extracting his arms from his leather jacket, one made more difficult by the sandwich now returned to his hand, not to mention his stumbling state. Observing the procedure with vague amusement, I notice that besides the untidy eyeliner, his lips look particularly debauched as well. They're either raw from too much rough snogging with Nails, or red for the same reason... she's fond of dark lipstick.

“D'you remember how Nails has a motorbike?”

As Sirius speaks, he looks up at me, so I put my thoughts aside, trying to look him in the eyes rather than the mouth.

He finally slips his jacket off after a fierce (and pathetic) battle, accompanied with a curse as he stabs himself with one of its spiked lapels. My chest feels oddly tight as I look at him, rakish with an air of rebellion, even if he's not sure what he's rebelling against.

Sirius runs a hand through tangled hair, other hand on his hip now, posture expectant.

Oh. Yes. The motorbike. “Anyone who's heard that contraption could never possibly forget.”

Unfortunately, I don't get the opportunity to hear where Sirius is going with his story (if it follows precedent, somewhere embellished, risky, and risqué): a freshly showered James joins us. He announces his presence by theatrically shaking water from the mane he takes such pride in, posing at the foot of the stairs til we humor him with greetings. Though damp, James looks to be in a good mood, and as he crosses the room, his dusky face shifts to an amused expression.

“What?” says Sirius.

He blinks, clueless. The expression, though generally put-open, is genuine this time, and only brings attention to what James is staring at.

“Pads... mate... ha, you're...” attempts James.

He can't seem to finish his statement, interrupting himself with a laugh.

“ _What?_ ”

“I mean, I was starting to wonder, with the hair,” another laugh, “then the... the whatsit, the little mesh shirt you came home in a few nights back. Bet those weren't Nails' panties I found either, eh?”

James elbows Sirius in the ribs good-naturedly, but he's not playing along, expression growing darker.

“Stop being a prat and get on with it. What're you trying to say?”

“Didn't know you were a poof is all. Wish you'd've said something, I'd have been more careful about keeping my pants on around you.”

James is grinning wide, always one to take the piss whenever possible. I find myself suddenly on edge, full of irritated energy, so I busy a hand with pulling at the threadbare sleeve of my sweater. Sirius seems taken aback by James' teasing, though it's hiding under his affected air of carelessness. Not well, apparently:

“I have a bloody girlfriend, Prongs! I've shagged more——for fuck's sake—are you talking about this?” He gestures to a smudgy eye, rimmed with black, his brows furrowed. “All the muggle punks are doing it, Nails thought it would... bring out my... oh, _for fuck's sake_ , Prongs.”

Sirius isn't one to get ruffled, so James must've hit a nerve. My worry deepens.

“What sort of language is that for a lady?” James is still snickering to himself, looking delighted.

After glaring for a few moments, Sirius makes a sound between a huff and a growl. Gritty exhalation.

“Piss off.”

The intent is there, but it's got none of the usual Black vitriol. Weak, somehow. He looks like he's debating saying more, eyes narrowed, but apparently it's not worth being near Prongs for another instant—in a moment, he's tossing his leather jacket in the general vicinity of the coat rack (I make a mental note to pick it up for him), now noisily stomping upstairs. I can't tell if the heaviness of his footsteps is because he's angry or drunk. Most likely both.

The room is quiet. James appears a bit baffled.

“Why's he acting like a bowtruckle's up his arse?”

I carefully place my book aside, resting it on the table near my chair, and then stand up, posture straight and tense. Looking down at him, I affix James with a look of firm disapproval, one he knows well. He's nicknamed it my prefect frown.

“Was that honestly necessary?”

“You can't tell me he doesn't look fucking hilarious, mate.”

Personally, I find myself disagreeing, however: “That's not the point, James. You know he goes through phases; it isn't worth making an ordeal over.”

“Why not? Someone has to tell him,” he says. The corner of his mouth lifts, half of a smirk.

“I think you went too far,” I reply, voice weary.

“That's what you always say. He'll get over it, he's just got to sulk and get it out of his system is all.” A pause. “And take a wet rag to his face,” he adds, chuckling.

“Look, Prongs, he's... sensitive about his image, and he obviously doesn't want us to know that he is.”

“Then I did him a favor, 'cause right now his image is 'suicidal shirtlifter who probably has pierced nipples.'”

I sigh softly. Raise a hand to my temple. A headache's coming on. I'm aware, as always, that I'm not going to get through to him. Living with James is... well, it's easier to handle during the schoolyear, when I can retreat to the library whenever I need. I've realized over the last fortnight that spending a summer in constant contact with him is a different experience entirely.

An infuriating experience at times. He's never known when to stop.

“Since when do you sweep in to defend him, Moony? He's a big boy, er, girl, and besides, his face gets all funny when he's flustered.”

A swell of anger rises in me. Before I say something I'll regret:

“I'm going to make some tea.” I turn.

“Maybe you can bring some up for your boyfriend while you're at it.”

I'm thankful that I'm already on my way to the kitchen when he says this, because my face is suddenly so red it likely looks like I've eaten a handful of Pepper Imps. My hands are balled into fists, and it takes a deep breath for me to unclench them.

The appeal of heading to the kitchen was to have a few moments alone to gather my thoughts, so I'm disappointed that it's already occupied by Mrs. Potter, who is supposed to be sleeping but who is instead bustling about as she gestures with her wand. Washrags glide themselves to the sink, and she lowers a dark hand, looking at me with a gentle expression. Did she overhear?

“You alright, love?”

She affixes me with an oddly knowing, if kindly, smile.

“Er...”

My face burns, growing somehow more scarlet. I can think of several ways to start my next sentence, all foolish, and not a single thing to end it with. Thankfully, she replies for me.

“I think it's wonderful that you stand up for our Sirius. He's finding himself, poor dear.” Her voice is warm, full of motherly affection. “So is James. I do wish he wouldn't take it out on the two of you.”

“I... ah...”

“Oh, it's alright, love. I'll be out of your way. I just want you to know you can talk to me if you need.”

“Thanks?”

Talk about... what?

As Mrs. Potter leaves the room, curls bouncing and a spring in her step as always, she turns and sends another smile my direction. I deeply hope I imagine the wink that accompanies it; this entire summer has been a surreal break from routine. Does she know something I don't?

As I busy myself with the meditation of preparing water for tea, I take a deep breath, then one more, attempting to calm my nerves. My headache is digging deep roots. Waiting for the kettle to boil, I find myself opening cabinets to look for the bar of baker's chocolate I suspect Mrs. Potter keeps hidden. Can't blame her for hiding it.. it must be difficult to watch over several teenagers for weeks at a time. Particularly if one is impulsive, impossible Sirius Black, who I can hear stomping around upstairs. In fact, I deeply sympathize with James' mum, and end up abandoning the quest of infiltrating her chocolate stash.

Staring at the stovetop isn't as distracting as fishing around in cupboards, and I find myself reliving recent events. I don't understand why Sirius and I got so tetchy at James' teasing. That's what he does, that's what they both do, that's what I always pretend to ignore, straightfaced; though often I can't help but chuckle at them, hiding the sound behind a sleeve or a book... what was different this time around?

Standing about _thinking_ probably isn't a great alternative to the chocolate search, I realize as my mind gets wrapped up in useless, repetitive thoughts.

It isn't as if observing James and Sirius get into their childish arguments is new to me. Often, they rope a clueless Peter into humiliation alongside them for the fun of it, but rarely succeed with me. Against my better judgment, it's amusing to watch them have a go at each other. Maybe because I know they don't actually mean any of what they say. Only say it to get a rise out of each other.

Now, though, I'm left with a pounding stress headache and thoughts I can't make sense of. Something unnamed and primal in me is defensive over what transpired, though Sirius has likely forgotten he was mocked in the first place. That's just what the two of them always do, isn't it?

I'm back to fidgeting with my sleeves again. Can't help but start peeling my cuticles back. The look on Sirius' face before he went (fled?) upstairs, as if he was at a loss for words, incapable of satisfying retaliation. That's not how it's supposed to go.

 

* * *

 

 Once I've got a mug of herbal tea to soothe my frayed nerves, I relocate upstairs to the guest room I've been camped out in. Unsurprisingly, Sirius is there, having apparently decided against sleeping in his cot in James' room. I don't blame him. Something curious flits through me when Sirius looks up and meets my eyes, his own pale irises standing out against the kohl on his lids. He's taken over my bed, a brooding look on his face. I notice uncomfortably that he's listening to one of his awful records... thankfully, the volume is down lower than he's usually got it.

I gingerly sit at the foot of my bed, hoping Sirius won't redirect his bad mood onto me. Leaning against the bedpost across from Sirius, I stretch my long legs out parallel to his and sip at my tea. It's too hot for the action to be comfortable, let alone enjoyable, but I've got to busy myself somehow. The room is buzzing with unspoken, unpleasant emotion.

Something crosses my mind, a sense of dread trailing behind it.

“You didn't leave that sandwich in my bin, did you?”

It would take a thorough scrubbing to get the smell out. Thankfully:

“It's smeared inside James' pillowcase,” Sirius says with a smirk.

This surprises a chuckle out of me. “Good.”

“Funny, thought you'd disapprove.”

“Not this time.”

If he wanted me to, I couldn't explain why, but thankfully Sirius doesn't ask. His smirk turns into a genuine smile. I return it. The atmosphere in the guest room seems to have lifted, despite the angry music emanating from the record player.

“You know, it, er... doesn't look bad on you.”

Didn't mean to say that. Making him smile like that, soft and sweet, which looks odd on his angular features... it temporarily wiped my mind of its self-regulation mechanisms. Hope Sirius knows what I mean, even as I'm regretting the words the instant they tumble from my mouth. His smile shifts somehow, but doesn't diminish. I feel a bit fuzzy around the edges, like static in my skin.

“Nails thinks so too.”

And with that, the pleasant sensation dissipates.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And that laugh that wrinkles your nose  
> It touches my foolish heart"


	4. Jigsaw Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ' “For fuck's sake, Moony, you're not better than us because you don't let yourself get mad.”
> 
> “You can't honestly be angry at me for not being angry,” I answer, tone detached, insides churning.
> 
> The implication that I'm not angry is false, which must be obvious to Sirius. I feel like a volcano aching to blow open, magma roiling underneath. I also feel foolish for feeling this way, so I bury it under exasperation. '

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Send me forwards say my feelings  
> But all the signals send me reeling  
> Jigsaw feeling
> 
> So I just sit in reverie  
> Getting on my nerves  
> The intangible bonds that keep me  
> Sitting on the verge  
> Of a breakdown  
> Of a reaction  
> Of a result
> 
> Complete me. maybe. defeat me.”

It's been nearly half an hour and I still haven't found a simple clean glass. Been offered a beer (“you look like you need it more than I do, mate”) but nothing to put under the rusty faucet in the loo I'm currently camped out in.

When I was searching in earnest, I was discouraged by the strangers, very oddly dressed muggles, sitting on counters and loitering by the cabinets in the kitchen. I haven't got the nerve to ask anyone to move. All I need is a clean glass... my brain is pounding, painful, and I _really_ need some simple goddamn water.

I've always gotten headaches when I'm stressed, when too much's going on and I can't think straight, head full of too much tangled up worry; I saw this one coming before we arrived. The house, predictably, was audible from half a block away; voices tinged with drink, bottles breaking on the curb. As we arrived, I remember wondering again why I allowed myself to be dragged along...

This is the sort of place perfectly suited for Sirius, and honestly, I'm surprised James hadn't wanted to tag along, despite the recent strides in his maturity level (considerable, and attributable to one redheaded source). Me, though? I'm the most out of place I've ever been. Incredible, absurd, that I had decided to come. I know the reason, but I'd rather not admit it to myself. It had been a bad idea from the beginning, and I was obviously aware of that, always am, but he had his begging face on, puppy eyes and lips quirked just so. Pathetic. Desperate to share something he loves with me. I suppose it was inevitable that I would agree.

Somebody bangs angrily on the bathroom door, yells something I can't understand through the thick liquor in their voice. Well, there goes my hiding place. I extract myself from my thoughts and push off from the sink I've been leaning on, turning a dull brass knob and swinging the door open.

“'Bout fuckin' time.”

The figure shoves past me, gender unidentifiable under leather and fishnet, slamming the heavy wooden door behind them. Apparently, for one to receive their punk credentials, they have to leave their manners behind.

I linger in the nearly-empty hallway outside of the bathroom. The house that Nails' band's show is in... it reminds me inexplicably of the Shrieking Shack, which isn't a favorable comparison. Structure relatively new, but in absolute disrepair. There are remnants of released anger written the holes in the walls, the crooked chairs with legs kicked in. Also like the Shack, this house is massively overdue for a cleaning.

Despite these surface comparisons, I think the reason this place reminds me of it is the sensation of dread upon entering.

I had wanted to enjoy myself; in fact, I had come with a strict self-imposed resolution to be a Normal Human Teenager for one time in my awkward existence. No such luck. James likes to complain about the crowd Sirius is getting in trouble with nowadays, but I hadn't been prepared for this. And I had _not_ expected to actually care what these people thought of me. Nothing good, that's certain, but it's strange that I care at all.

I pace down the hallway. My bloody headache is turning into a migraine and Nails' band hasn't even started playing yet. Mind swerves, without my permission, towards a spiral of self-flagellation for royally embarrassing myself when I had met her. Leaning against the wall in the hallway now, trying and likely failing to look nonchalant, I wonder where Sirius went when I had excused myself to find a glass of water. Probably back down to the basement to joke with Nails about what had transpired.

Screw this night, and my traitorous head, which reacts to stress with pain, thereby enhancing the stress; screw my habit of word-vomiting when I meet people who intimidate me, as Nails absolutely had earlier tonight. Sirius had looked so proud, both of himself and of her, when he had dragged me to the dusty basement Nails and her band were setting up in. He had a personalized hullo for everyone down there, fit in like he was part of it. He had received a wet, lascivious kiss from Nails before turning to me with a beaming grin, her lipstick on his lips, and...

And I had embarrassed myself on a level I had previously thought impossible.

She was tall. Very tall. Statuesque, almost, with an eerily symmetrical face (the effect lessened only slightly by a smattering of piercings). Thick biceps, thick thighs, Sirius's hand resting on her wide hips looking oddly delicate in comparison...

My mind was utterly blank when Nails had focused her gaze on me, disdainful black eyes ringed like a raccoon, body sizable enough to make quite-average-sized-Sirius look slight... the other band members were looking at me; Sirius was looking at me; my ankles felt like they would give up any moment and send me toppling;

I had never felt so small or so utterly inadequate.

To be honest, I don't want to remember the things I babbled, somewhat incoherently, when the palpable pressure down in the basement finally drove me entirely mental. Undeniably, certifiably insane.

Have I blocked it out of my memory already? That usually takes longer...

Luckily, despite his many drawbacks, Sirius Black excels at quick thinking. “Sorry love,” he had said to Nails. “Blood sugar crash, you see, he gets like this now and then... I'll see him upstairs—Remus, you haven't eaten since this morning, have you? Come on then, kitchen's this way—”

Hand on my shoulder, guiding me away like a helpless puppy.

Sirius had been looking forward to this, to two of the several people closest to him finally meeting, and I had spectacularly, monumentally screwed the night up...

Standing upstairs in the here and now, or hiding, more like, I'm suddenly seething with anger at myself for agreeing to come here. I knew something like that would happen. No matter how hard I try to be normal, act like other people my age and not like a barmy, rickety old man who lives a secluded life with only heaps of books and a tank of grindylows for company—why can't I just behave normally for _one fucking night_? Now, a migraine to rival the worst I've had has taken command of my head.

“Oi! Basement!”

The voice is penetrating, clearly practiced. I look down at the people flowing from the ground level down to the basement. I find myself glued in place, fidgeting with my fingers on the stair railing. It's unavoidable at this point that I am at a concert; we're all presumably here for one reason, though I dread descending into the basement and actually taking part.

What do people even _do_ at these sorts of things? Only one way to find out, I suppose. The thought of the noise level I'll be subjecting myself to is making my head throb again preemptively. I'm headed down the stairs to the ground level when I see Sirius struggling his way up the basement stairs, against the flow. His expression brightens when he sees me; in response, my heart does something odd.

“Come on, Rem! Basement. Now. You promised.”

“I... yes, I suppose I did. I'll be down soon, I just... er. Loo. I'll come down, I swear, just give me a moment.” Again, words tumbling out like English is foreign to me. This night refuses to improve.

Sirius is giving me an odd look, head tilted, hair tumbling down and looking particularly shiny as it swings. My eyes linger on it for a second. For some reason, that irritates me; why is his hair so distracting when I've got several thousand other things to stress about?

“Alright then,” Sirius says, slow. “But I'm holding you to it.”

I nod. Eyes dart to the floor. The sound of instruments being fiddled with, piercing, emanates from downstairs. Sirius smiles quickly before he turns and heads down to the basement again. His boots make a thunking noise on the wooden floor. I know how important tonight is to him; James refuses to come to another show that Nails' band (named Dirt, though it changes often) puts on. He's has been growing up in leaps and bounds lately... at least one of us has. I've been going backward, it seems.

Sirius wants to show off to at least one of us, I think. Had practically begged for me to tag along tonight.

Shaking myself out of my thoughts, I realize that the floor has nearly vacated. Bizarrely dressed muggles had filed themselves downstairs, stairs creaking more rhythmically than the erratic drum beat and snare crashing up the stairwell. With that ear-assaulting noise, the band begins to play. I can hear them plenty well from the ground floor, and the unpredictability of it is making my head hurt all over again. Feels like drills tunneling through my eardrums.

This is _not_ my sort of music. Sirius had known that. He must remember the night we got stoned together, when his music screwed up my mood enough to make me pounce on him like a... werewolf or something. Funny how that works. When it's near a full moon that bit of me dwells very near the surface, and it takes constant awareness to stay myself.

I do not feel like myself right now.

It isn't just sound; the basement is sending vibrations throughout the houses' foundation, the soles of my trainers, into my bones... a hum, a thumping buzz of negative emotion, taken out into amps and microphones under the vague title of “music.” My feet are pacing without my permission, not sure whether to head back upstairs and retreat, or subject myself to The Basement for Sirius' sake. I did promise, didn't I?

Nails is singing now. Not singing. Screeching, shouting, anger building as the song progresses. Rasping voice. Guitar wails. This is much worse than the Ramones... worse, even, than the Sex Pistols, Sirius' other obsession at the moment.

My head is throbbing so hard I can't think at all.

Brain's too occupied with the cacophony of Dirt beating on their guitars, drums, and bass, with Nails throatily yelling words I can't understand, not even to a particular tune...

Eventually, after a bit of pacing to steady raw nerves, I summon the courage to creep downstairs. I had promised, after all, so I try to squash down my headache and give this night a try. Somehow, people enjoy attending concerts like this; why can't I just open my mind for Sirius? As I cross the room towards the stairwell, I try very hard to ignore the stares of the punks lingering on the ground floor. Obviously, I look out of place, and my nervousness is emanating outwards too. I feel a sudden wave of shame for the outfit I'm in—uptight, poor schoolboy. Saggy, worn clothes patched, though not in the way these people do it, not as a fashion statement or a rebellion...

Once I'm on the rickety stairs to the basement, the volume is deafening. I can feel the shouts and the screech of guitar under my skin, in the thump of my heart, as if it's vibrating through every inch of me. Probably is. It can't be legal to do something this loud, surely. I expect a policeman to arrive any moment.

Not that anyone here cares about the law. From where I'm standing now at the foot of the basement stairs, I can see several people smoking what look like spliffs, and dozens of beer cans in hands of people who look even younger than me. Someone in the corner seems to be handing out pills to her mates. After scanning the dimly lit crowd and seeing no sign of Sirius, I focus on Nails and the rest of the band, though I'd been putting it off...

Even now that I'm close enough to lipread I can't tell what the lyrics of the song are. Despite the abysmal quality of the music, I can't deny that Nails has presence; even without a stage, she projects confidence from every pore. The way her black eyes sweep the crowd, how her body moves, panther-like...

Despite how hard I'm trying, I can't pretend that my head doesn't hurt for much longer. I look at the crowd again; it's made up of teenagers and people in their twenties milling about, doing something that could vaguely be called dancing. Some are banging their heads, whipping hair about, slamming shoulders into one another. They look... thoughtless, angry, releasing something from deep in them, reveling in it.

Not something I do often. One night a month, though never in this body.

My migraine feels like all my thoughts have gotten tangled and grown into something viciously bitter. I wish that I could let it out like these people are, but it builds, festering, and erupts into headaches, fidgeting, into constant worry and a self-imposed sense of helplessness.

Finally, I spot Sirius. He's engaged in something violent and apparently consensual, shoving his body off of several other boys wearing similar leather jackets. Like muggle fist-fighting, but with purely impersonal malice. Of course. Padfoot has always been one to find outlets for his anger.

Wish I knew what that was like.

My migraine is pounding so hard it's drowning out even the mind-numbing sound of the concert that's occurring. I head back up the stairs, simply not capable of venturing further into the basement. I had tried. I had came, saw, felt, and fled. Just not something I'm equipped for.

This is hardly better: I wander the ground floor, and though I'm glad for the reprieve from the “music,” I'm trying and failing to ignore the looks from the few people still there, standing in clumps, talking in low tones. As I've been since I arrived, I am self-conscious, desperately wishing Sirius, James, Lily, or Peter were up here to keep me talking and distracted. I need distraction not only from the stares, but from the pain in my head, my ears, from irritation bubbling up from where I'd tried to tuck it away again...

If Sirius hadn't insisted on bringing me, I never would have embarrassed myself in the basement with Nails, or had to deal with one of the worst migraines I've ever had. Of course, he hadn't listened when I told him I'd rather stay at the Potters tonight. Always has to get his way. Even now, when he should've been able to tell I'm not feeling well, Sirius had expected me to subject myself to the earsplitting racket emanating up the stairs... of course, Sirius Black is not one to dwell on other peoples' internal states. Maybe he hadn't even been aware of how I was dreading tonight, and how miserable I've been since we arrived.

Well, of course he had noticed when I'd been an absolute blathering idiot, made a fool of myself in the basement earlier...

I'm angrier now, at both myself for thinking I could behave normally for one night, and at Sirius for putting me in these circumstances. He should have known I'm not built for this. He should have listened when I told him I didn't want to come, but instead he pushed until I caved. That's what makes me angriest: I shouldn't have given in and agreed to it. Why can't I tell him no and stick to it?

As if summoned by my thoughts of him, a very sweaty Sirius appears in the corner of my eye, heavy boots stomping up the stairs. I do not turn to greet him, clenching my jaw briefly.

“Should've known you'd never give any music a chance that hasn't had books written about it.” He sounds... not quite annoyed with me, but getting there.

I'm silent. Internal pressure builds. The chaos from the basement pounds in my ears.

“I mean, I know it's not a library down there, but you said you'd try.”

My eyes focus anywhere but on him. The ceiling of this room is cobwebby. I fidget, crossing my arms. There are a great many things I'd like to say to Sirius (things like “that's not music,” “you knew I didn't want to be here in the first place,” “I did give it a try and now my brain's trying to escape from my ears,” “kindly shut up and let me leave,” etc). However, I don't want to have a row, so I don't say anything at all.

I'd love a moment of peace and quiet to gather my thoughts, because I can't think of a non-argumentative response with the noise Sirius thinks is music thumping in my ears, painfully resonating in my bones...

“C'mon, Moony, you're not even going to... I don't know, scold me for having a good time? Tell me off for taking you here without written permission from the Potters? Give me detention?” There's something in Sirius' tone, like he's trying to get a rise out of me. “Knew you were uptight, but I thought you were gonna try to enjoy yourself for once... promised you would...”

As if I haven't been trying. As if this entire night hasn't felt like shoving myself into a box I simply can't fit in, ending up exhausted, bloodied, bruised. Why can't Sirius see how broken I feel? These things come easy to people like him, but for me, they're impossible.

“Could you stop running your mouth for half a second, Sirius, and let me think? I know that concept is foreign to you...”

He smirks, crosses his arms. Lips still tinted, evidence of his girlfriend's sloppy, lipsticky kiss. The one that left me sputtering like an escaped patient from a mental ward. Something animal surges in me. My jaw is clenched now to keep another insult from escaping; I imagine how it would feel to let go. To allow my fury take over my body, the way Sirius and his mates had been doing in the basement. Slamming into one another, flesh against flesh, bruises worn like badges the day after...

That's something I can never do. What's bubbling under my skin could take me over entirely, beyond the chaste love-taps the boys in the basement had been giving one another. Something is trying to claw its way out from inside of me, raw and bloody. By necessity, I have developed a honed sense of self-control; it is being tested at the moment.

There's anger in the air, summoned up by the punk music, brought to a head by the energy that the concert-goers are radiating... it's coalescing, building up inside of me. Sirius is goading me to release it, take it out on him, but I'm not letting that side of myself take over. My head throbs harder than I knew it could, brain boiling.

Apparently, I've overestimated Sirius's patience:

“Oh, for Merlin's sake, Remus, could you stop being such a nance and just come do what we came here to do?”

Still refusing to look at Sirius, I attempt to remove myself from the growing confrontation. I head to the front door, perhaps stomping a little more than necessary, and slam the heavy door behind me hard enough to shake walls already vibrating from amplified instruments being tortured til they scream.

Crossing the thankfully-deserted porch, I lean heavily on the railing, now looking out over a decrepit yard and into the open night sky. Thoughts rush by, piling up on one another... I can't keep track of them. Deep breath. In, out. The hot anger in my hands and feet thrums, and the stinging pain in my skull is here to stay, even now that it's harder to hear the hell-sounds coming up from the basement.

Just as my heart rate is returning to normal, chaotic thoughts coalescing into something semi-understandable, the door swings open. My back is to it, but I can tell by the sound of his steel-toed boots who it is.

“Right then, now that you've had time to think of some witty insults, care to share?” He sounds teasing, but there's a hard edge on his voice. Sirius wants a fight. It's in his blood tonight. Sometimes he gets like this, but we're usually within reach of Slytherins when it happens...

The things I'd like to tell him aren't particularly witty. That he's a prat who only thinks of himself. That he can't honestly enjoy this torturous music; he's only in it because then he gets to shag Nails, because shagging is half of what he thinks about—the pent-up anger is growing more difficult to contain now. Sirius is self-obsessed, rash, thoughtless, goes through phases as regularly as my monthly transformation.

I'd like to tell him off for a great many things, including, bizarrely, for stealing my book of poetry and refusing to give it back, though that was a fortnight ago and I thought I'd forgiven him for it... apparently, I had just shoved it down deep enough for it to rot and turn into something worse.

I refuse to give Sirius the pleasure of an argument. He loves a good fight, but I'm not going to let it be with me tonight: I don't know what would rise to the surface on my end. Something I'd inevitably regret, whichever feeling it arose from. Unfortunately, my silence seems to be pissing my friend off more effectively than snapping at him again would.

“Shout at me if you like, get it out, you always—you can't just let it build up, so just fucking say what you want to say for once.” His voice is firm, frustrated.

In response, I am silent, hands in fists, opening and closing, digging nails into my palms...

“For _fuck's_ sake, Moony, you're not better than us because you don't let yourself get mad.”

“You can't honestly be angry at me for not being angry,” I answer, tone detached, insides churning.

The implication that I'm not angry is false, which must be obvious to Sirius. I feel like a volcano aching to blow open, magma roiling underneath. I also feel foolish for feeling this way, so I bury it under exasperation.

“You're not as mature as you think you are, Remus. You've got to deal with this shit or it turns into something worse, do you get what I'm saying?”

I want to hit him across the jaw. Hard. No, push him off the porch; I stare at the ground and imagine the satisfying thud that he'd make on it. The sound of his breathing grates on my ears, which are pounding, migraine rising to a deafening roar. My hands are clenched on the railing, but I'd rather wrap them around Sirius' too-loud windpipe. He paces the deck, stomping a little, trying to draw out a response.

Finally, he seems give up, and leans against the rail too, pose uncharacteristically thoughtful. I hear the click of a lighter. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that Sirius is studying the sky off the far end of the porch, and won't be able to see if I'm looking at him. Finally, for the first time since he left the thudding basement to mock me, I move my eyes over his frame, fuming.

He's radiating some kind of energy beyond simple anger, but I can't tell what—muscles tense, tendons taut, one hand on the railing and one holding some kind of hand-rolled cigarette. Probably a spliff. I don't know where his jacket's gone... all that's left is a white undershirt, nearly soaked through. The skin on his bare shoulders is coated in sweat, probably equally from him and the people he was slamming his body off of in the basement.

From inside, I can hear Nails' band continuing to generate noise, nothing more. The entire block can hear. My skull feels like it's so pressurized it's going to shatter.

“You know why I get in fights, Moony?”

I don't reply. Because he's got a molten temper and is incapable of thinking before he acts? Because he lives to get a reaction, even if it's negative?

I watch a drop of damp trickle from the nape of Sirius' neck, out from a curtain of dark, wet hair. It slides over a mole and faint outline of a vertebrae on his back, down the middle of his star tattoo (from Nails, who else; the thought irritates me), which is carefully assembled from separate dots. Finally, the sweat reaches the hem of his low-slung undershirt.

He answers his own question. “If I don't let it out I get angrier. If I do, it's gone, out in the open. And I wonder, since you never let anything out... how d'you feel when you just... pretend things don't bother you? Does it build up, get uglier, like it does for me?”

I've never heard him this contemplative. I'm resentful that he's thinking more clearly now than I am. Thinking is the only thing I'm good at... if you can call doing something obsessively, unendingly, a skill. Sirius is still staring at the constellations to the south, smoking. I watch a column rise from where he's standing, twisting and dispersing into the faint wind. Doesn't smell like tobacco.

I want to punch him. I also want to run my hands through his tangled hair, pull hard, smash my mouth against his and bite his lip and—I want to taste the hollow between his collarbones and nip at his infuriating fucking neck, is what I want to do. I imagine pressing against him, desperate. Tugging on his hair til he hurts, digging my nails into his back... those impulses are bringing out self-directed anger of a rather new sort. I'm clutching the rail in front of me hard enough to hurt, trying to center myself in the pain, in my head and my hands, in my chest, which suddenly feels like a bonfire.

I do nothing. Like Sirius said, I know that tucking this pressure somewhere deeper to deal with later is dangerous... but I feel paralyzed, too much churning inside of me to isolate any one part of it and act. Like I have so many other times, I swallow my anger, and my freakish erotic fixation; will myself to forget it. I won't; never do, which is part of what had made me so furious tonight (and _that_ night, the one that planted those thoughts in my head in the first place)...

Sirius seems to have accepted that he's failed to get a reaction out of me. I don't look him in the eyes, can't now that the thoughts I've had would poison it, but I can tell he's disappointed in me. He should be. I feel like a coward. He may be impulsive, but he's probably right; it's better to act and cleanse yourself of resentment than to let it build, turn into something even nastier.

I would act, want to, _need_ to, but the emotions I ought to act on are tangled up with the ones that would ruin our friendship, and likely taint what I have with James and Peter besides. Now, I'm wrapped up in thoughts of Sirius regaling an amused pair of Marauders with tales of my twisted attempts at intimacy...

I'm torn from my unpleasant imaginings by the approach of a muggle wearing a monochrome uniform. I had seen it coming, but somehow, hadn't expected my worries to come to fruition. He ascends the stairs onto the porch and affixes the two of us with a judgmental gaze. The policeman is portly, shorter even than Sirius, though his stance is confident enough to make up for it.

“I'm here to follow up on a noise complaint.” Voice is firm, authoritative.

“Thank god...” I mutter. Now Sirius won't have any choice but to leave with me.

“What's that, son?”

My knees are a bit quivery. “Nothing. Just, I'm, er, glad you're here...”

I glance at Sirius, who luckily had the forethought to toss his spliff off the side of the balcony. Our eyes meet briefly. He seems nervous, a look he hasn't worn often. Then, he looks to the policeman, slapping on his practiced expression of authority-figure-appeasement.

“You lads wouldn't happen to know anything about what's going on inside, would you?” The man's tone is accusatory.

“I'm just here to see what the racket's about. Couldn't sleep. You know how it is,” I reply, inventing a story frantically, though my tone doesn't betray the anxious feeling—I'm overcome with a surge of Gryffindor courage.

The policeman's watery gaze sweeps over me; my plain haircut, stodgy woolen sweater, shapeless trousers, thriftshop trainers... he seems satisfied with my story after the examination, and looks up to my face.

“And him?” He gestures to Sirius, who's looking helpless.

I glance at my friend. Unlike me, he's dressed to fit in here—torn undershirt, still soaked with sweat, pinned together... threadbare jeans clinging to his legs, heavy leather boots shifting weight from one foot to the other...

“He's... my brother,” I answer weakly, though we look nothing alike. “I brought him in case our neighbors tried to start a fight... when I asked them to quiet down...”

My story's getting thinner with each word, but luckily, the policeman has the air of someone who just wants to get the job done and head home to a warm bed.

“Fine.” He pauses, examining my face one more time, then glances at Sirius with disdain. “Don't get into any trouble on your way home.”

This has the air of a strict command, so I find myself stepping towards the stairs and descending into the trash-filled front yard, glancing back at the policeman nervously. He's at the door now, banging on it with a meaty fist, probably not loud enough for anyone inside to hear over the barrage of sound still emanating from the basement.

As we walk back to the Potters' neighborhood, a fog of mutual silence hangs between Sirius and I. I'm grateful for the quiet, because it gives me a chance to deliberately unwind my nerves, which I haven't had since we arrived at the house show at least an hour ago. Still, I can't help but worry about a great many things... perhaps worrying is my most honed skill, not thinking persay.

It's impossible for me not to dwell on my mental state earlier. There was anger, of course, but there were also things much less socially acceptable than that. The wizarding world and the muggle one are very different, but in some areas, popular opinion is identical. It's the 1970s. Things are changing, but certainly not fast enough to make these impulses in any way safe or sane.

As I do so many emotions, I try to force this into my subconscious. It refuses to cooperate. What am I? Werewolf, wicked creature, apparently corrupt in other ways as well... they say some people are just born like this, and if it had been for anyone but Sirius, I don't think I'd be as upset with myself for it. As it is, though, I can't help but think about what the reactions of the Marauders might be to what I've realized. Their laughing, disdainful faces loom in my mind.

The walk to the Potters is silent, and whatever time I don't spend worrying myself, I wonder what Sirius is thinking. He'd been in an odd mood before the policeman came.

Though I try very, _very_ hard to discard it, my preoccupation lasts for several days; I had been relatively successful dismissing what had happened, what I had felt, that night we had smoked together. After all, drugs were involved, and it had just been that one moment. A simple reaction to touch (or perhaps I'd only chosen to remember it as simple). Now, though? Now that I've realized the extent of this?

The feelings, the animal attraction, bubble up over time, both in waking life and dreams. I'm incapable of resisting fantasy when I'm asleep later in the night, and after that, it becomes much harder to avoid even when I'm in full control of my faculties. After a few days of this, it becomes difficult to look at Sirius without wondering, fleetingly, how he tastes, what sounds he might make if I kissed the spot between his ear and his neck, moved down, sucked and nipped at his skin...

Impossible. Filthy. My mum, sweet as she is, would want me to undergo muggle shock therapy if she knew the thoughts I was having. Undoubtedly, the Marauders would agree. They embrace rebellion to a point, Sirius in particular, but there are some things that simply aren't spoken about unless you're insulting someone. It's been obvious for quite a while that I'm simply put together wrong, in many different ways; I suppose it makes sense that I couldn't get this part of being a teenage boy right either. Took a while for these urges to arrive, and when they finally have, they're of a nature that would have gotten a muggle put in prison just ten years ago.

I don't think I feel this way about men in general, at least. Just the one.

Sirius is infuriating, and infuriatingly beautiful. Now that the floodgates have been opened, when I'm around him I can't help but focus on his compact, firm muscles, on his facial structure like a fucking Greek god, on the confident way he takes up space, as if he's owed it. He's enigmatic, magnetic, passionate... obnoxious. Since we first met, he's frustrated me, and my inexplicable desire to impress him has been just as frustrating. Now, I think I'm starting to understand why I value his opinion so highly.

 

* * *

 

Frowning slightly, I toss a muddy travel cloak into one of the Potters' enchanted washtubs.

“ _Please,_ Pads, I thought we had made a nonverbal pact to never speak of... The Babbling Incident...”

“She thought you were cute, Moony, that's a good thing, right?”

“Cute like a terrified mousy schoolboy who couldn't introduce himself, you mean? That's not the sort of impression one hopes to make.”

“Well, yeah, but to be fair you were.”

“Way to rub it in, mate.”

“Cute, I meant.”

It's a good thing that I've got my back turned to him, hands busy emptying a wicker basket of dirty clothes. My cheeks are as pink as those previously-white dress shirts the only time Sirius was allowed laundry duty in the Potter household.

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was... mostly a way for me to get out some built-up ugly feelings from my own Anxious Experiences at shitty house shows. the whole fic is obviously projection of my own issues onto my version of Remus but they do say "write what you know" i guess


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